


12:04

by ForLoveOfLiberTea



Series: lyrical compositions [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 06:40:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11435274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForLoveOfLiberTea/pseuds/ForLoveOfLiberTea
Summary: "I'm not crazy—it's perfectly normal to hear your soulmate's voice in your head."Seventeen-year-old Alfred F. Jones has always had a fondness for clichés. He tends to dream that he will hear his soulmate’s voice in reality—someday, somehow, and he is positive that it will be soon. He’s spent hours on daydreaming how they will act when they first meet, if he will manage to literally sweep them off their feet, but here’s the thing: the voice he hears in his mind is male—but he can’t exactly live without hearing his voice all the same.[ unedited oneshot ]





	12:04

**Author's Note:**

> Song: "Porcelain" by Marianas Trench.

**[ J u l y 3 r d ; 1 0 : 1 9 P M ; N e w Y o r k ]**

_He’s not singing tonight, either.._

With a heavy breath, the blue-eyed blond tosses and turns upon his bed, draping an arm over his half-lidded eyes. He kicks at his blankets again, succeeding in pushing off Captain America off of his similarly Avengers-themed bed, before another groan pushes free of his lips.

He sits up, idly reaching for his glasses upon his nightstand, before he lazily makes his way toward his desk, making himself halfway comfortable on his swivel chair. The teenager mutters another incomprehensible curse as his conscience barks at him— _“Do your homework, you lazy prat!”_ —in his soulmate’s ever-endearing accent.

But he denies its request, this time around—not until he hears him sing. 

He’s tired from the past week, he’s even been grounded from hanging out with his fellow football teammates after Monday’s shenanigans, so he feels that he deserves some kind of reward. And truth be told, all Alfred F. Jones wants to hear right this moment is his soulmate’s voice. His singing, to be exact—he’s always been (unintentionally on the latter’s part, perhaps) coercing the blond to be more productive, or rebellious, depending on what song the voice sings that night.

Alfred’s heard of the rumors: that there are, indeed, instances where one can actually hear one’s soulmate’s voice in real time—wherein you can ‘listen in’, in simplest terms, as to what your significant other is saying in reality. In the American’s case, it happens that in these times of the night, he can hear what his ‘other half’ is singing; in addition, it appears to be a habit, which in turn made it hard for him to concentrate on other things outside of routine.

That, added to the fact that ‘Iggy’ (as he had gotten accustomed to calling his soulmate’s voice that: a butchered form of a nickname rooted from ‘England’, his significant other’s possible place of birth) never—not even once—missed a night of singing a batch of songs, made it even more difficult for the restless seventeen-year-old. Contrary to popular opinion, he isn’t exactly someone who would ever turn a blind eye from anything out of the ordinary. 

And this was the third night of silence.

Alfred can’t exactly say that he’s particularly comfortable with this; he’s always been someone who didn’t like the quiet, preferring the rousing and constant jibes he gets from his conscience—read: _soulmate’s_ voice—in his head. 

So, once more he sighs heavily, leaning his head back against the top of his swivel chair. 

_Maybe things are changing.. Well, whatever happens, dude, I hope you don’t get yourself into trouble before I even meet ya’._

**[ J u l y 4 t h ; 0 3 : 1 9 A M ; L o n d o n ]**

He feels both warm and cold at the same time, resting his bruised head against his windowsill. His dull green eyes watch as a raindrop splatters against the pane of glass, before skidding down, down, down towards the bottom of the frame and disappearing from sight.

A breath escapes from his parted, pale lips; clouding the rain-soaked glass and he watches as the skies pour with the usual rain, dropping its custom beat upon the eaves. He reaches up with a pale finger, easing the window open even more, and a slight breeze brings in the usual scent of the city: the smells of vehicular smoke, wet soil and perhaps cement, a slight tinge of nicotine from cigarettes left to die on the soaked pavement. There’s also the slightest hint of baked products from the patisserie across the street, and the smell of it rouses the hunger pangs in his stomach and the boy wets his chapped lips as he stares longingly at the slowly darkening display windows.

The deafening silence presses against his ears, and he slouches down low, withdrawing from the chilly comfort of the views outside his window and into the gloom of his own bedroom. He can’t hear the annoying, bright voice of his so-called ‘soulmate’ anymore; he feels trapped, like the darkness is slowly but surely raking its claws along his back, pulling the nineteen-year-old into its embrace. A glint of senseless paranoia flickers to life in his evergreen pools, and his gaze darts from side to side, his arms (clad in a thin, dark sweatshirt which barely keeps away the cold) wrapping around his slender frame.

He’s shaking, but he doesn’t know why; he’s not really that affected by the temperature, is he? He knows that it’s not his right to complain; his mum’s failed to pay the electricity bill for the month, and now—

Arthur Kirkland swallows thickly, preventing the instinctive rise of the bile in his throat as his mother’s scream reverberates through the thin walls of his home. His half-brothers are out for the night, as they always are, but it doesn’t mean that his stepfather is, as well. He can hear her sobs as if he’s standing right outside the door to the kitchen, but he’s not—he’s upstairs, but he can see it so clearly, and the sounds only further stoke his suspicions. 

There’s another crack, signifying that his stepfather must have hit his mother again, and he hunches down even lower, burying his face in the crook of his arms. He doesn’t want to hear any more of these; he doesn’t even want all of these and yet— and yet—

The door creaks open, and the blond bolts upright, emerald hues locked upon the small figure who pushes open the door. 

_“..Peter,”_ he whispers, not so much as a murmur as it is an exhalation of the breath he didn’t know he had been withholding until that moment. For a brief, morbid while, he wonders what might have happened if his younger brother hadn’t walked in until the moment he’d already been deprived of oxygen and was already gone from this world. He shakes his head, then, and straightens out his cramped legs. 

“What are you doing here?”

The little boy shakes his head, and Arthur can see the beginnings of tears in his younger sibling’s blue eyes as he clambers up and onto his brother’s bed, whispering in reply,

“I’m scared.”

And what else can he do? He sighs, gathering the younger into his arms as he tries to resolve to become a temporary shield for his brother against the world. 

“I know, Peter. I am too.”

Even for a moment, he pretends he’s a hero, even though he knows that he is not.

**[ J u l y 4 t h ; 1 2 : 0 4 M M ; N e w Y o r k ]**

Alfred can remember the first time he heard his soulmate’s voice in his head.

It had been four years ago. He had been chatting idly with his friends at their lunch table, joking around and teasing a particularly bubbly Antonio Fernandez-Carriedo due to his first time hearing his significant other’s voice _(“He was cursing at me, but it was worth it! I can picture him blushing; I know he’s gonna be mi tomate~”)_ when a faint, ringing sound echoed in his head, and a strange, accented voice began to sing.

_"You thought by now,_  
_You'd have it figured out._  
_You can't erase the way it pulls,_  
_When seasons change._

_“It hurts sometimes,_  
_To find where you begin.._  
_But you are perfect porcelain…”_

He’d stood up so quickly, upsetting his tray and sending his favorite burger flying and hitting an unsuspecting target (he made sure to apologize to a disgruntled Lovino Vargas right after, which led to the Italian transferee to meet his soulmate, which in turn turned out to be none other than a very, _very_ enthusiastic Antonio) and slammed his hands on the table. Even for a then-thirteen-year-old, Alfred had always been strangely strong. 

“Didja hear that?” He’d shouted, looking wildly from side to side. His teammates looked blankly at him, before now-renowned flirt Francis Bonnefoy looked up at him in confusion.

“Hear _what, mon cher?”_ The French boy had asked, and Alfred had shaken his head, clutching at his blond hair—but he’d still been careful not to touch that one particular strand which always defied gravity; he’d learned by that time.

 _“I don’t know,"_ —that had been his answer, and he’d sat back on the bench, utterly confused and uncertain.

He had only learned of the significance of that moment a year later, when the Spaniard (then happily engaged in ‘friendship’ with his soulmate) had revealed to him that a similar event had occurred to him when he first heard Lovino’s voice in his head.

So now that the same song is repeating in the American’s mind as he stops pondering over his Trigonometry homework ( _Math can go to hell,_ he thinks briefly), he has to wonder what must be going on.

 _“The slow and simple melody, of tears you cannot keep from me. It's alright if you don't know what you need..”_ he hears the voice pause for a brief moment, and a hushed murmur of, _“Peter, listen to me,”_ interferes before the voice starts again.

 _“I'm right here when,_  
_You need someone to see._  
_It's not speak or forever hold your peace;_  
_It's alright to take time,_  
_And find where you've been._  
_You are perfect porcelain._

_“The slow and simple melody,_  
_Of tears you cannot keep from me._  
_It's alright if you don't know what you need…”_

He gasps, then, as—suddenly as if it’s a burst of static—a vague noise pierces through his mind (as if there had been a door kicked in), and his soulmate’s voice continues, rough and shaky (almost as though he’s crying):

 _“Oh, when your heart releases,_  
_You won't fall to pieces._  
_You'll let those old diseases lie._  
_Oh, and your heart releases,_  
_You won't fall to pieces,_  
_And your breath comes crashing in—_  
_Like perfect porcelain.._

_“The slow and simple melody,_  
_Of tears you cannot keep from me.._  
_It's alright if you don't know what you need—"_

Alfred doubles over, coughing and trembling as his significant other’s voice breaks through the haze in his mind— _“DON’T HURT PETER—YOU FILTHY WANKER—”_

And then there’s nothing but silence, a hollow resonance in his mind, heart and soul.

**[ e n d ]**


End file.
